Withered weed in a base
old wooden table
remembers
the bays of fame
cold is the way
paying with pain
like thousands
of useless coins
that rings in my pocket.
Morning rises
and I dream to have ability
to keep my eyes closed
just when sun stops
hating all my dark dreams.
Withered weeds in a base
I remember those days
when the smell of fresh flowers
was your hair.
Those moments
all to give back
with tears and destruction
of a flesh.
I smell the evening
feeling cutting through me
as the red light on
the horison...
old wooden table
remembers
the bays of fame
cold is the way
paying with pain
like thousands
of useless coins
that rings in my pocket.
Morning rises
and I dream to have ability
to keep my eyes closed
just when sun stops
hating all my dark dreams.
Withered weeds in a base
I remember those days
when the smell of fresh flowers
was your hair.
Those moments
all to give back
with tears and destruction
of a flesh.
I smell the evening
feeling cutting through me
as the red light on
the horison...